Another Chance, Another Change
by Celestia Craven Genesis
Summary: The aftermath of Sherlock's fall affects everyone around him, ending with Sherlock's actual death from an assassin. John listens to Sherlock's last words, soon afterwords being shot himself in an alley. As John dies, a strange teenager offers to send him back in time, to stop any of this from happening. John Watson accepts.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Sherlock_. I am, however, tickled pink at the very idea.

**Published**: June 18, 2013

**Notes**: I'm so sorry I haven't updated anything for a few months! Honestly! You guys must hate me. TT_TT Anyways, I had this chapter lying around Scrivener and it just needed to be polished, so I decided, why not publish it? I won't update it any time soon, most likely, but it was an interesting thought. This jumps right into the time travel, but I will include flashbacks in later chapters (if I write them) to show the effects of John's first life. Obviously, this will have temporary character death for Sherlock and John. Well, I've taken enough space here, so lastly, please enjoy!

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**Chapter One**

In the End, What is Important?

* * *

John Watson sat at the someone's bedside, a silent sentinel in the straight backed wooden chair as he lost himself in his thoughts.

"John . . ." a weak voice murmured.

John focused on the voice of the person lying on the hospital bed, whose eyes were closed and whose face was scrunched in pain.

"Sherlock," John answered.

The consulting detective forced himself to open his eyes and sit up, leaning heavily on the headboard. "John," he said in a slightly more steady voice. "I never told you how grateful I was that you forgave me," he said. His eyes were bright, showing the brilliant mind still contained within, still as sharp as ever. His body, however, was failing on him –– he was too weak to recover from his wounds.

John shook his head. "It is nothing. Don't mention it," he said, concerned. He did not want his best friend to spend his last moments thanking him for something that John already considered forgotten.

"No," Sherlock said with a sigh. "I want to say this."

John could not deny Sherlock his last words, so he kept silent. He gently placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steady him, slowly pushing him to lay back down.

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath. "Scotland Yard will always suspect that I was responsible for Moriarty's crimes, whether I was proven innocent or not."

That was indeed true. It had made John quietly furious, but Sherlock was very rarely contacted by the British police force for help after Moriarty's death. Even when he was, the officers gave Sherlock suspicious looks and Lestrade had never had the heart to stop them, no matter how guilty he himself felt.

Not to mention Mycroft, who had become alarmingly pale in the year after Sherlock's death. Mycroft Holmes would always be haunted by the year he spent believing that he was responsible for his little brother's death. Since Sherlock's return, Mycroft had only met Sherlock in person once to make absolutely sure of his identity before he had started avoiding his brother like the plague. Sherlock's true death would be a blow that Mycroft might not be able to cope with.

Sherlock seemed to have a similar train of thought, because his next words were, "Tell Mycroft that I never blamed him. He did what he thought was best, sacrificing a single person for the sake of an entire country. I would have done the same in his place."

John nodded. "Of course, Sherlock," he said in a surprisingly even voice.

A wide smile crossed Sherlock's face. "That's John Watson," he said fondly. "Steady and true, always. You were always there when I needed you most."

John waited as Sherlock closed his eyes and took another deep breath.

"I––" Sherlock said, pausing. "I had hoped that you would have forgiven me, when I had taken out the majority of Moriarty's network, but I could not be certain. You continue to surprise me. You may have been angry with me, but you did forgive me. And you've continued to help me, like you used to. I can't work without my blogger."

John cut off Sherlock's ramblings. He reached out to hold Sherlock's hand and looked at his tired face. John smiled. "You didn't have to hope for my forgiveness, Sherlock. We're friends. I'll always forgive you –– for keeping body parts in the fridge, chemicals on the counters, and ticking off every government official in England –– even when I'm angry at you."

Sherlock grinned. "Are you going to stop bothering me about being rude to Donovan and Anderson, then?" he teased.

John chuckled. "I already punished the pair of them enough during the year that you were away, Sherlock. I managed to wring so many favors from them; they felt so guilty for their parts in your death, when I proved that Moriarty was behind everything. You were ruining that with your insults," he said with a grin.

Sherlock sighed. "Still . . . I wanted you to know just how much it meant to me, that you wanted to keep being flatmates with me and continued helping me with my cases. I . . . I still have only one friend, John. I don't think I could have lost him."

"I'll always be here, Sherlock," John said. "Just rest, now."

Sherlock closed his eyes with a smile. "Goodbye, John," he said. There were a few moments where nothing happened, but then Sherlock's neck went slack and his head rolled to one side.

John leaned forward to place his hand on Sherlock's forehead for a moment. Then he stood up, completely motionless for many long minutes. A tear rolled down his cheek as he said, "Goodbye, Sherlock," in a strong voice.

~ oOo ~

John turned his back on his best friend's corpse and lifted his cell phone out of his pocket. He scrolled through his contacts before stopping at "Anthea."

He quickly texted her, face emotionless.

_Sherlock was shot by an assassin. Died Tuesday April 20 2017 at 8:47 in the morning. I want to meet Mycroft about Sherlock's wishes soon._

A few moments later, there was a reply.

_Are you sure? Mr. Holmes can't take another false alarm. _

For a minute, John wanted to tell her that he was wrong, that everything was going to be all right, that Sherlock would recover and take down Moriarty's network once and for all. He wanted to pretend, for a little while longer, that everything hadn't been destroyed.

_I saw the wound myself,_ he replied instead. _I'll text you the address of the hospital._

After a moment, John added: _Tell Mycroft that Sherlock's last moments weren't too painful and that Sherlock understood and forgave him. I need to talk to him face to face soon._

_Is there anything I can do for you? _Anthea asked.

John stared down at his phone for a moment, then glanced back at Sherlock's corpse. He replied and tucked his cell phone away, exiting the room and heading toward Baker Street to speak to Mrs. Hudson.

_No._

~ oOo ~

John Watson heard a noise behind him in the alley. He pretended not to hear anything, but his hand strayed toward his pocket. There was only the slightest sound of footsteps, but John leaned aside at the last moment to dodge the slash of a knife heading at his back.

He jumped backward and studied his assailant. It was a completely normal looking young man, clothed in blue jeans, sneakers, a hoodie, and a baseball cap. The only thing wrong with this picture was his steady stance and the knives in both hands.

John Watson drew his gun and aimed it straight at the young man's heart. "Drop the knives and start talking," he said. "Or I'll shoot."

The young man tilted his head to one side in thought before wisely dropping his knives with a clatter and raising his hands in surrender. "What do you want to know?" he asked.

"Your name, for a start," John said. "Who you work for, what they're planning."

The young man grinned. "The name's Moran –– Sebastian Moran. I work for Moriarty."

John frowned. "Moriarty's dead. Sherlock saw him shoot himself!"

"Course he's dead," Moran said. "That was his plan, after all. He wanted Sherlock Holmes to be completely stripped of his reputation, forever. Boss left instructions for me to take over in case of his death. I'm to kill you, if Sherlock managed to somehow cheat the conditions of the game."

John moved forward slowly, preparing to kick the knives further away from the place where they were laying a foot or so from Moran. "So you're the one who killed Sherlock. But you failed with me," he said, eyes blazing with anger. There was a promise, there, that he would regret letting John live long enough to make him pay for killing Sherlock.

As John inched forward, Moran grinned. Suddenly, the boy twirled his index finger in a circle and dodged quickly to the side, ducking behind a set of trash bins.

Then there was pain. John fell forward on his face, feeling his blood pool around him. "A sniper," he gasped, turning his head to the side and cupping the bullet wound. "This was all a setup to get a good angle for your sniper."

Moran stood tall above him, throwing his baseball cap away and ruffling his hand through his bleached blond hair. "Yeah," he said. "Sorry, Johnny, but orders are orders. If it helps any, no one has ever managed to avoid me before. I almost completely left the sniper out, but Boss was always right in the end. Well, I'm off to get the other two on my list –– Mrs. Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Then Moran was gone, taking his knives with him as he skipped out of the alley.

It was a painful death, as these things went, John thought. He'd live for quite a while more, bleeding out like this. The sniper hadn't aimed for anything immediately fatal. Moriarty had most likely planned it that way. Even so, John would be dead long before he could call for help.

John coughed, feeling his systems start to shut down. He didn't want to die, at all. He wanted to continue solving crimes with Sherlock. He wanted to prevent any of this from ever happening, to rewrite history –– a dangerous desire indeed.

This desire was heard.

John looked upwards as he heard a set of footsteps entering the alley. It was a teenage boy, wearing a black greatcoat even in the rather nice April weather and holding a carved walking stick. Odd, he thought. Why would anyone use a walking stick in London? He wasn't limping, after all.

"Wow," the teen said, crouching down and sounding completely unsurprised at finding a dying man in the alley. "Moriarty's people did a fairly thorough job with you."

John didn't even bother responding. The teen was poking fun at him, he knew.

"Oh, come on, don't be like that," the teen whined. "I didn't mean it."

"So why," John gasped, "are you here? Are you the sniper or something?"

"No," the teen said. "Though I certainly know how to shoot, I've never killed anyone. I'm here to present you with an offer."

"What offer?" John forced out through clenched teeth.

The teen smirked. "To undo everything. If your will is strong enough, I can use it to bend the fabric of time. I don't often have the opportunity to try –– not many people are strong willed enough to actually go through with time travel."

John sighed and proceeded to ignore the teenager. It was obvious, yet again, that the teen was mocking him.

The teenager frowned. "Fine," he said. "I'll try to persuade you. What is there to lose? If time travel is real, you get to save the lives of Sherlock, yourself, and those two other people Moran are about to kill. If I'm lying, nothing happens."

John chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah, what have I got to lose?" he said. "Go on, do your whatever."

The teen grinned. "Okay," he said. "Focus on the time you want to return to –– I can't actually move matter through a time vortex, but I can move your spirit. You'll have to pick a time when you're alive, of course, or else you'll just be a wandering ghost without a body. And, of course, concentrate. No second thoughts or doubts about what you want to do, or it won't work."

At this point, John was too weak to offer much protest. What a nutjob, he thought. Why did Sherlock die a peaceful death in a hospital while John was stuck with a teenager who evidently believed in time travel? Sherlock would be so envious. An _interesting_ death.

Still, if John could have gone back in time, he would have gone to when he was still a child. Then he could just slowly build up his own allies and friends to face Moriarty's network –– which was much larger than either John or Sherlock had thought it was. John would prevent Moriarty's scheme of destroying Sherlock's reputation, which had caused the general public to still be wary of the detective even after he'd been proven innocent.

Mycroft would still be his confident self, no longer haunted by guilt. Mrs. Hudson would still be a friendly landlady instead of the mourning old woman who took care of the now empty flat in Baker Street, making them tea every afternoon to check that Sherlock was still there. Lestrade himself had become second guessing, never forgiving himself for participating in Moriarty's scheme, even involuntarily –– for not having faith. John would never again wake up gasping, "Don't jump!" even after Sherlock's return, confident that he could protect Sherlock from Moriarty this time around.

As John slowly faded away, these thoughts twirled in his head. He didn't regret a single thing in his life, but there were things that he could do to prevent Sherlock from becoming the thin, half-starved creature that he had become after a year following what he knew of Moriarty's network. The network which had apparently been under Moran's orders, shrinking but not dying as Sherlock had thought it was from what he had managed to gather.

The strange teenager's face was apathetic as he raised his staff in the air, slamming it down on the stones under his feet. Blue runes painted themselves onto the stone, growing until they surrounded the mortal's body. The mortal –– John Watson –– was fading away. The teen did not concern himself, instead pushing his power into the runes until they burned and shined like golden water.

The teenager murmured a string of words under his breath before pushing the last bit of necessary energy into the rune array. "I send thee, mortal, back in time!" he exclaimed, wind ripping at his greatcoat. "This is my agreement with thee! One day, you shall return my act of kindness!"

He slammed his staff onto the stones again, stones rippling as if made of water. The runes started to hum and sing, before moving around each other and creating a small fold in space and time. The mortal's rapidly dying body released its spirit and John Watson fell through the fold, falling back in time.

The runes disappeared with a flash, leaving a dead body lying by itself in an alley. There was no sign of the teenager.

"Good luck," the wind whispered in the boy's voice. "Good luck."

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Please Review; Constructive Criticism Welcomed!

To Be Continued . . .


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